‘I’m Smiff, the painter.’

‘You’re a day late!’

‘It was rainin’ yesterday, no point.’

She walked over to the hatch in the floor and shouted. ‘Ith Mr Thmith the thign writer!’

‘About bloody time!’ The gruff voice echoed from below them in the beer cellar. ‘OK, let ‘im get on with it.’

The man in the paint spattered overalls winked at the barmaid in the drawstring blouse.

‘So, you must be Betty, the one who phoned us through with the name?’

‘Yeth.’

‘So, was it you that chose it then?’

‘Yeth I did, I wath thinking of the one my boyfriend hath.’

‘Really? It’s certainly quite an unusual choice.’

‘Yeth, I used to thtare at it when I wath in bed with him. It wath juth hanging there on dithplay.’

‘I see, and it didn’t put you off?’

‘Put me off wot?’

‘You know… off lovemakin’?’

‘He’th not my boyfriend anymore.’

‘I can understand that... So, would it be any particular colour, your governor would be wanting?’

‘Brown I thpose, I don’t rightly know. I’ll athk.’ She shouted down to the cellar. ‘What colour, he wanth to know?’

‘I don’t bloody care, just make it look natural.’

‘Natural, he wanth. He’th having big nobth round for the unveiling thith evening at thix. It’th the grand opening of the pub later today.’

‘A naming ceremony huh? Well, it’s traditional, I’m used to that. I’ll put a sheet over it so no one sees it beforehand. And don’t worry it’ll be finished. I’ll make up for lost time. What’s he like then, your boss?’

She smiled back and lent towards him to whisper over the bar. ‘Mr Fawltleth is a bit of a thtickler. He’th a bit shtrethed coth of the fact it’s gonna be our firth night of opening an’ all. He’th fine, as long as you do exactly what he thayth, and don’t quethchun nuffin.’

‘Right, well I won’t question nothing then, as you say. Anyway, I better get a move on. I’ll see you later. I should be finished by six.’

***

At six o’clock, the painter made his way back through the crowded pub over towards the barmaid, and she smiled at him.

‘Is it finithed?’ she asked, excitedly.

‘Yup.’

‘Fawltleth wanth the unveiling ceremony to begin ath thoon ath pothible. He’th invited all these big nobth ere thpecial. I'm run off me feet!’

‘So I see.’ Mr Smith the painter gawped around at the local dignitaries in their suits and the Mayor in her full regalia and robes of office. ‘Right, well it’s ready, when you are.’

Five minutes later, a crowd of about fifty people were gathered at the front of the Inn. With a good deal of enthusiasm but not without some difficulty, several hefty farmhands hoisted the amply proportioned Lady Mayor up onto the top of a beer barrel. Once installed, she smiled hesitantly at the gathered throng and unfolded a piece of paper to begin her address.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, magistrates and Aldermen of the Borough,’ she continued in her pretentiously posh voice, ‘As you know, the new landlord here, Mr Fawltless, has invited us all to this establishment today, to witness the opening of the newly refurbished Inn, and to witness too, the symbolical unveiling of the Inn’s new name. Our host ensures the highest standards in every detail of service and delivers outstanding hospitality. He has a countywide reputation that is second to none and that has preceded him here, and I may say, if my own experience here today is anything to go by, it is indeed, undoubtedly well-deserved.’ She smiled at Mr Fawltless who grinned ingratiatingly back. ‘It is well known that he is most particular about his standards, and he requires everything to be just so.’

There was a ripple of appreciative applause and shouts of hear-hear, and the Landlord smiled and waved in acknowledgement.

‘I am sure it goes without saying, that our esteemed host, Mr Fawltless has spent a great deal of time and effort…’

‘And money!’ interjected Fawltless.

‘…Yes indeed, and money, in making sure that the newly refurbished hostelry has been fitted out with every modern comfort and to the highest possible standard, worthy of our beloved market town. Therefore, it is now, without further ado, and with the greatest of pleasure, that I, the Mayor of Porkhampton, as your humble elected representative here today, will be handing over to your bountiful barmaid, Miss Betty Bilbo who along with Mr Fawltless has chosen the name for this wonderful establishment, and who will be actually naming the pub. It is a name that pays tribute to the long and honourable farming tradition from which our town has made its living these past five hundred years. May I ask that you all show your appreciation to your barmaid, Miss Betty Bilbo, who will now please come forward to perform the ceremonial pulling of the rope.’

Betty came forward, smiled and curtsied. Then, she nervously gave the rope a little tug.

Mr Smith the painter looked on in bemused anticipation from the back of the throng.

‘I, Betty Bilbo, do ‘ereby name thith ‘ere public ‘outh … the Big Scythe !’

She pulled harder and the cover sheet floated to the ground, and the barmaid’s words tailed off to be replaced by a high-pitched exclamation... ‘Ewwwwwwwwwwww!’

The crowd stared, and as one, gave out an astonished groan. The vibrantly painted sign was still wet and glossy. Then, one by one, there were muffled chuckles. The muffled chuckles turned into muffled guffaws. The muffled guffaws turned into convulsive fits. And soon all were laughing and pointing up at the signboard - with the exception that was, of Mr Fawltless and the good Lady Mayor. The landlord stood in dumbfounded disbelief and the Mayor began to tremble on top of her barrel in shock.

The Mayor screeched as she stared in wide-eyed incredulity. There it sat, upon a pewter platter in a pool of blood. Her screech started to topple the barrel over, and she wobbled precariously this way and that, until finally her knees gave way and she went flying. Gathered below the burly farmhands were eagerly anticipated her toppling from off her pedestal and managed to soften her landing as she plunged backwards in amongst their impromptu scrummage.

Fawltless looked angrily around. ‘I’ll 'ave im! Where is he, the bugger!’

Smith the painter of course, had decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and was nowhere to be seen. And a bewildered Betty Bilbo stood looking up at the sign. ‘Thstreewth! Ow’th that ever a big scythe then?’

Nevertheless, there it was, for all to see. In all its gory glory, from up on high a huge dismembered bloodshot orb now glared down at them, and below it, the letters as if scrawled in spattered blood, proclaimed the new name of the pub... the Pig’s Eye.